


Deserved

by deepliketherivers



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Achilles is Sad, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ares is Hot, These are the pillars upon which this fic is built, Zagreus is Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepliketherivers/pseuds/deepliketherivers
Summary: The tale of Achilles' life was tragic, and the story of what happened to him after death was much the same. It is the tradition of Greek heroes to be unhappy.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 129





	Deserved

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate Summary: Being emo about Achilles, and Ares is mean, but it's kind of hot

The sweltering battlefields of Troy were well-travelled territory for Thanatos by now. On one side, the stone walls of the city rose into the sky, and on the other, a deep, hand dug channel separated a sea of tents from the battlefield. But Thanatos spent most of his time between the two, on the sprawling expanse of packed dirt that soaked up more and more blood as the war dragged on and claimed the lives of soldiers and heroes. 

Charon normally arrived before he did, but he came when he could. Even soldiers deserved a peaceful death if he could manage it. 

Bodies of the fallen had already been collected, but many of the shades still lingered here in the dust, staring contemplatively at a stained patch of ground, or scanning the horizon, not quite sure what they were looking for. Thanatos closed his eyes and focused on that lost feeling, using it to gather the shades into his consciousness before swinging his scythe. The sound of a phantom bell marked the release of the shades from the domain of the Olympians and into the realm of the Underworld. 

The shades on the battlefield snapped to attention, seeing Thanatos for the first time before they dissolved into smoke and drifted downward into the dust. The light sound of flapping wings let Thanatos know that Hermes was nearby, keeping an eye on his harvest and ready to intervene if any souls wandered from their path or became lost. 

This was a well-practiced routine, but Thanatos frowned as he felt an irregularity. His scythe was perfectly sharp, but he had felt a slight snag against the blade during the reaping, and he could feel it still. The lost feeling that had choked the battlefield before had weakened, but had not dissipated completely. There was still someone here. 

His gaze caught on a pair of figures not far from the walls of Troy, and he barely restrained a sigh as he recognized one of them. This damn war had more godly meddling than Thanatos was able to keep track of anymore. 

“Lord Apollo.” He approached them and greeted the Olympian, bowing his head graciously, “Is this shade under your protection?”

When the shining god laughed, the sound of it was musical, but Thanatos could hear a note of cruelty there as Apollo glanced condescendingly down at the shade. “I don’t know if I would call it protection, Lord Death, but he is certainly in my custody, and I prevented him from hearing your call. Don’t you recognize him?”

Thanatos looked carefully at the shade, whose restless gaze passed straight through him. He was unusual looking for a Greek, with light colored hair and green eyes, and his armor was extraordinary, obviously not crafted by the clumsy hands of a mortal blacksmith. 

“Ah.” The answer was obvious, “So death has finally caught up with Achilles, greatest of the Greeks.”

Apollo nodded, “His battle against the Fates was long, but he’s been so careless lately that it was only a matter of time. Even with his recklessness, the mortals could not bring him down on their own; Paris’ bow required my touch to aim true.”

The shade continued to drift aimlessly from one spot to another, clearly still unconnected from what was going on. The dead were often confused and disoriented until they’d been claimed by the Underworld, and Apollo had kept the sound of Thanatos’ bell out of Achilles’ ears. He was still lost between life and death, and Thanatos longed to reach out a hand and release him, but he knew doing so would upset Apollo.

“You… have plans for Achilles?” Thanatos asked, carefully choosing his words to avoid offense, “There is a place for him in Elysium.”

Apollo smiled brightly, “Of course! He is the greatest warrior of his generation. But I promised Lord Ares that after I helped Paris kill him, I would hold our hero here until he arrived. 

The god of war has some business with him.”

Thanatos pressed his lips together tightly and resisted the urge to reach out and grab Achilles’ hand, turning him to smoke and sending him to Elysium. Not all souls deserved an easy death, after all, and not all suffering could be prevented. 

“I am well-acquainted with Lord Ares, and I trust he will deliver the greatest of the Greeks in due time, then. Before I go, may I return him to himself?” It was a small mercy, but the only one Thanatos could grant, “The dead do not know where or what they are until they are told.”

Apollo nodded easily, and Thanatos gently squeezed Achilles’ hand before he disappeared in a flash of green and smoke. 

On the battlefield outside the walls of Troy, Achilles suddenly knew that he was dead. 

The memory of it was sharp and unmistakable as he recalled the piercing pain of an arrow, and he realized with a little surprise that it had been the first time he’d been badly injured.   
No wonder people were so afraid of pain, if that is what it felt like. 

There was warm presence beside him, and when Achilles turned to see the source, he blanched. Divinity seeped from the man, and although he had never seen him before, Achilles knew this must be Apollo, god of the sun, music, plague, and an Olympian who was no friend of the Greeks.

He bowed his head and turned away his gaze in deference, “Lord Apollo. I am… honored by your presence.”

“Are you?” The god smiled, “I wouldn’t be so certain. I killed you today, or at least I helped. Paris couldn’t have done it on his own.”

A bitter chuckle nearly escaped Achilles’ lips because of course godly intervention was the only thing that could have brought him here. Battle was his sole purpose. It was what he was made for, even when the thought of survival had turned sour. 

“In that case…” Achilles knelt on one knee and offered up the only thing he could – the bloody spear that had followed him all the way into the afterlife. “Please accept my weapon as the only thing I can give to express my gratitude. I have waited…” His voice caught in his throat, “I have been waiting for this day for some time now. I pray that you no longer bear hatred towards me, as I would ask permission to worship you for as long as my soul exists.”

It was a pathetic display, and Achilles knew it. In the past, he would have knelt for no one, Olympian or not. But that pride no longer existed, and he could only feel the sincerest thanks that when the sun rose tomorrow morning, he would not face Troy. His fate was fulfilled at last, and his days as a weapon were over. 

Apollo picked up the spear and tested the weight of it in his hand, “This spear was a gift from your mentor Chiron, was it not? Are you so eager to part with it?”

Achilles grit his teeth, “It was a gift for a warrior. A gift for Achilles, the greatest of the Greeks, and I do not wish to be Achilles any longer.”

A warm hand settled on top of his curls, and Achilles flinched away, but Apollo’s touch remained gentle as he pulled Achilles’ head back to look at him, “Why are you ashamed?”

But true shame cannot be admitted, only found out. The deep, hot well of loathing that Achilles had grown so familiar with bubbled up into a flush that stained his cheeks red, but he could not answer Apollo’s question. Speaking the truth of the depth of his failure was a humiliation that he could not bear.

Before Apollo could press him further, Ares arrived at the battlefield of Troy. 

“Apollon! I see you’ve have kept my disciple safe. You have my thanks.”

Just as surely as Achilles had known Apollo by his presence alone, he knew that the man who approached them now was Ares, and his stomach lurched at the smell of iron and blood that had been his constant companion in life. 

“Stand up and greet me, Achilles. Why should you bow before the god of war when you have satiated my appetite so well? I’ve come to escort you to Elysium.”

Achilles was a tall man, but when he stood, Ares was taller. Bright white war-paint cracked in a stark band across his eyes, and laurel leaves decorated his hair. He was large and imposing, and to Achilles he felt so dreadfully familiar. 

Ares placed both of his hands on Achilles shoulders and smiled, showing the razor sharp edges of his canines, “You offered up your soul to war, and so I have come to take you.”

A long time ago, before Troy and before Hector, before Agamemnon and Odysseus, before he was a soldier and a General, Achilles had made the choice to die young. The Fates had given him a decision between glory and peace, and after choosing glory, Achilles had spent many hours considering how death might go. Those fantasies used to include the Gods and the heroes of Elysium, hailing him for his skill and accomplishments, much like Ares was doing now, but recently his thoughts had turned to other faces he hoped would be waiting for him in the Underworld. 

In the tradition of unhappy heroes, it seemed Achilles would only be allowed the glory he sought when he no longer wanted it. His heart longed to hurry to Elysium and the man he hoped waited for him there, but it would not do to offend the gods. Even in death, their retribution could be terrible. 

Achilles bowed his head respectfully, “I am grateful for your attention, Lord Ares. Do with me what you will.”

That sharp grin flashed across the gods’ face again, and he answered, “I intend to. Follow me, son of Peleus, and I will show you the fruits of your labor. I can sense that Master Death was here recently. We can follow his pathway down.”

Achilles turned to follow Ares, pausing only briefly to turn to bow his good-bye to Apollo.

The warmth around Apollo grew hotter, and he began to glow as his physical form grew faint, but before disappearing, he leaned forward and spoke a parting message, his breath hot against Achilles’ cheek, “You had a wonderful singing voice, you know. It’s a shame you took up this spear, instead.”

The Olympian disappeared, leaving Achilles alone with the god of war. 

Ares did not wait, and he did not look back. His cloak fluttered behind him, the red fabric floating and snapping, even though Achilles could not feel any wind. 

The landscape of Troy faded around them as they walked, blurring as it grew darker and darker, until Achilles could no longer make out the shape of the Grecian tents, nor the walls of the city. The air was getting colder, and when he looked up, Achilles realized he also couldn’t see the sky—the blackness had become so deep that it seemed to extend forever. 

He turned his gaze forward again and felt a lance of panic as he realized that he could no longer see Ares’ cape. He couldn’t see anything. Bringing his own hand up to his face, he could not bring it into focus, even when it was so close, he could feel the press of his palm against his nose. 

The chill intensified, and Achilles had the horrifying impression that he’d been swallowed up by the Earth itself. 

“Don’t worry. We’re nearly there, little soldier.”

Achilles gasped as Ares’ voice rasped into his ear, and a hand wrapped gently around the back of his neck, “There’s just a few things I’d like to show you while we’re here in the Nothingness.”

Color bled back into the darkness, spreading out from their feet and stitching into shapes that were recognizable. 

Ares’ grip remained firm on his neck, “They’ve written songs about you already, you know. Let’s hear them.”

A gentle, lilting voice filled the space around them, and the colors writhed to match the words of the verse. 

_Sing, Goddess, Achilles’ rage._

His form was recognizable on the prow of a ship, his arm pulled back to hurl spears across the water at the beaches of Troy, sending body after body tumbling to the ground, at a distance that was impossible for even the most skilled Trojan archers. 

_Black and murderous, that cost the Greeks incalculable pain, pitched countless souls of heroes into Hades’ dark._

He watched body after body disappear into smoke as the familiar sound of his heels against the dirt beat out the rhythm that had been impossible for any other man to match. Achilles’ talent had always been speed, and seeing it from the outside for the first time, it looked like slaughter. No man of mortal blood could possibly keep up with the snake-like strikes of his spear, there and gone before they could even register the fatal danger. 

_Begin with the clash between Agamemnon, the Greek warlord, and brilliant Achilles._

In a blur of motion so fast it made him dizzy, the disastrous fight with Agamemnon unfolded in unnaturally bright color, flying forward to the moment he’d speared Hector through the chest and dragged his body back to his chariot. At his sides, Achilles’ hands began to tremble as the blur of the horses raced around them, with the limp, bloody corpse of Hector bouncing behind it. 

“Absolutely ruthless.” Ares commented beside him, “I doubt anyone will ever forget that part. But lets not forget to celebrate your legacy as well. Your son sails towards Troy as we speak, to carry on your name and reputation.”

The shadow of Achilles melts and is replaced by a young man that Achilles does not recognize. He is hardly grown, but he carries himself like he is accustomed to being obeyed. 

Ares waves a hand, and the scene transforms again, showing the same boy from before, but a little older now, pressing an elderly man down against an altar. 

“This hasn’t happened quite yet, but the Fates have already seen his future. They will call him Pyrrhus, after that red hair of his. Although, I suspect there are other reasons for the nickname, as well.”

Achilles watches in horror as a teenager with his eyes shoves his sword through the old man’s chest. He recognizes him now as King Priam, Hector’s father and the ruler of Troy. The rest of the Trojan monarchs are lined up against the wall, and he has to look away when Pyrrhus plucks an infant from the Queen’s arms and dashes it against the floor. 

The colors fade away and the blackness returns. The only sound left is the gasping air that Achilles cannot seem to keep in his lungs. 

He cannot see anything, but he feels the slow smile of Lord Ares against his ear as the war god whispers, “But as good as that was, this was my favorite part. There are very few men that can honestly say they resisted the power of Lady Aphrodite.”

A canvas tent forms around them, and Achilles cannot breathe. 

“But you can.”

_Will you do nothing as they die? Go to them!_

Achilles shuts his eyes, but the hand on his neck squeezes painfully, “Watch. Or I’ll make you.”

Patroclus is on his knees, holding Achilles’ face in both hands as he pleads with him. 

_Your pride is worth nothing if they all hate you! If you won’t do it for them, then do it for me. I cannot forgive you for this. If you love me, you will go to them!_

The nothingness returns, and Patroclus is gone once more. 

They spend a long time in the blackness. 

“Why do you show me this?” Achilles manages to ask, the words broken, “Am I meant to be proud?”

“I never said I brought you here to reward you, little soldier. I retrieved you from Troy to give you what you deserve. And you deserve to suffer.”

The hand disappears, and the only tether Achilles has to feeling real is gone. He is adrift in the Nothingness as the voice of war echoes around him. 

“You took and took and took from war. You took fame, glory, riches, and infamy that will last for generations, but you weren’t willing to give anything. Think of the hundreds of men slaughtered by your hand, but when you lost one, you turned your back on me. Stay here in the Nothingness a while longer, little soldier, and dwell on your hypocrisy.”

The voice faded away, and Achilles was alone in the dark.

* * *

What happened next was difficult to remember. He was lost for a long time—long enough that his mind started to fracture a little. Any relief he’d felt after being released from his mortal body was dashed to pieces by Ares’ reassurance that the echoes of his mistakes would follow him even into the foggy reaches of the Underworld. 

Absolute blackness surrounded him, and Achilles gave in to despair. He was the son of a goddess and a king, and he was not accustomed to surrender, but there in the dark he let the hopes he’d clung to unspool and fade away. 

Eventually, a voice had come to him, confusingly chipper as yet another Olympian crossed his path, “Hey there, boss, looks like you got lost on your way down!”

He’d been escorted to Elysium, where a quiet valley beside the Lethe awaited him, decorated with a statue of himself in full armor and no sign of Patroclus anywhere. 

Elysium was for heroes, the shades explained to him, so if his friend wasn’t there, that meant he hadn’t made the cut. He’d tried to battle his way into Asphodel, only to find his pathway blocked by the Furies, and a contract with his name on it. If he would agree to serve in the House of Lord Hades, then Patroclus would be allowed to enter the lush meadows of Elysium and spend the rest of his days in paradise. 

There was never any question about signing it. 

Achilles took up his post and let himself slip away. It was much easier as a shade than it had ever been as a human to let go of the emotions and passions that had defined his life. He had a job to do, and Patroclus was safe. It was more than he deserved.

* * *

Changes were unusual in the House, or at least they had been before Prince Zagreus was born. The arrival of the godling brought more upheaval than the Underworld had seen in millennia, as Queen Persephone fled, Lord Hades grew surly, and Achilles had a new job to do. 

Zagreus was still young when Lord Hades tasked Achilles with his martial training, and he was barely tall enough to reach Achilles’ hip the first time the Trojan hero placed a wooden sword into his hands. 

It was just another task for a while. Like the rest of his responsibilities, Achilles completed Zagreus’ training with his mind half numb, letting the simplicity of having a job to do carry him through the endless flow of time. 

They’d almost finished practicing for the day, and Zagreus had successfully thrown a spear for the first time. His form had been perfect, and the target some ways away from them was pierced straight through the center. 

“Well done, Prince Zagreus.” Achilles commented, and his student turned to him and beamed. 

He had a bright, contagious smile that looked utterly foreign in the dimly lit courtyard of the House. For what seemed like the first time, he really saw Zagreus, the sleepy fog that occupied his mind burning off in the light of that lovely grin. 

Zagreus had green eyes, like Achilles, and dark hair, like Patroclus. It was a stupid thought, and he knew it, but once it took roots in his mind, he couldn’t tug it out. The prince looked nothing like either of them, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from imagining what it may have been like, if he’d chosen a peaceful life with Patroclus, and a child like Zagreus had come along. 

He was much more attentive to the prince from then on, and he resolved to raise him the way Patroclus would have raised a child. He tried to teach him confidence and kindness in equal measure, and emphasized how important it was to be respectful of others, but also true to himself. 

The first time Zagreus was given an assignment from Hades was a disaster. It was a simple task of taking care of some of the filing in the administrative chamber, and perhaps the problem was its simplicity. The young prince was incapable of sitting still even long enough to sleep, much less alphabetize and file for hours on end. It had ended with an argument, and Zagreus had wound up in Achilles’ quarters, eyes red and a quiver in his voice as he explained what had happened. 

“I don’t think anything I do makes him happy.” Zagreus confessed, barely whispering, as if he worried someone might hear, “I don’t think anything I’ve ever done makes him happy. He doesn’t want me.”

Achilles gathered him into his arms and pressed a kiss to his temple, “Parenthood is a complicated affair, lad, especially for the gods. I cannot say how Lord Hades feels, although I do believe that he cares for you in his own way. Regardless of his feelings, you do not exist for your father. The only one who you are beholden to is yourself.”

Zagreus buried his face in Achilles shoulder and murmured, “I wish that you were my dad.” 

Achilles felt his heart break, and he had to stop himself from saying out loud his selfish thought. 

Me too.

* * *

Zagreus was not the type to leave things alone, and Achilles grew more and more anxious as the boy learned more about his background. He met Patroclus in Elysium regularly, and from his station in the hall, he could see the boy going in and out of the administrative chambers between his escape attempts, making vague claims about looking for some paperwork when Achilles asked what he was doing in there. 

He knew it was coming, but that didn’t stop his stomach from plummeting when he saw Zagreus rush out of the administrative chamber, carrying a gilded contract in one hand and his face split into a grin. 

“Just a second!” He called out as he hurried over to the House Contractor, “I’ll be right back!”

Achilles free to visit Elysium. He knew that was what Zagreus was after, and based on the boy’s ecstatic expression, he was about to get it. 

Zagreus came sprinting back moments later, color flushed high on his cheeks as he thrust the contract into Achilles’ hands, “There, sir! I told you I could do it!”

A stamp at the bottom marked Achilles’ sentence as ‘Paid In Full.’ He stared at it for a long while, barely staving off that icy feeling in his gut. 

Zagreus watched, and his smile faded as he waited for Achilles to react. “Sir…? I know you asked me not to interfere, but I thought… Are you upset with me?”

Achilles shoved his mounting panic down and smiled, “No, lad, this is the most wonderful gift that anyone has ever given me, and I’m grateful. But I am afraid. Patroclus… I worry that what I’ve done cannot be forgiven. Truth be told, I don’t deserve to be forgiven. I know it, but if I were to hear it from his mouth, I don’t know if I could bear it.”

Warm hands encircled Achilles, holding him in a comforting embrace as Zagreus answered, “He’s waited for you for a long time, sir. I hate to be rude, but I don’t think Patroclus gives a damn about what you think you deserve. I know you’re scared, but fear is for the weak, remember? And I know that you’re strong enough to do this.”

It was what he needed to hear. 

Patroclus waited for him beside the Lethe, splayed out across the grass the way they’d done when they were young and couldn’t imagine the cruelties the world had in store for the two of them. Longing ballooned in his chest, pushing up into his throat with its intensity. He wanted to be there beside him. He wanted to take his hand. He wanted to touch his hair. He wanted. He wanted. He wanted. 

“Patroclus.”

His lover did not rise to meet him; instead, at the sound of his name from Achilles’ mouth, Patroclus closed his eyes and sighed. “Oh, that voice. Say my name again, love.”

On trembling legs, Achilles made his way to Patroclus’ side, knelt and reached out to interlace their fingers, “Patroclus.”

“I was beginning to think that you would never come.”

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.”

* * *

Zagreus stopped by regularly on his trips through the Underworld, usually alerting them to his presence by smashing all the vases at the entrance, and then hurrying to ask Patroclus if he had any revival potions on hand. They tried to slow him down, but the young prince was a whirlwind, talking and running about until he declared that he needed to move on. 

After one of these visits, Achilles stood looking after him, a fond smile on his face as he watched him go. 

Patroclus leaned in to say, “He’s a good boy. You should be proud.”

Joy was probably not what Achilles deserved in the afterlife, but it seemed that he would be allowed to have it anyway. 

“Maybe next time, he’ll stop to fish with the two of us.”

“Maybe next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments are appreciated <3


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